Scarves
by spout
Summary: Green and silver, red and gold, Arthur and Alfred. Some things just compliment one another. HP/APH crossover.


**a/n: ello dis is spout an ur watchin teh didney channel. **

**first fic, whoot! it's a crossover. and a multichapter. you know why?**

**because reasons. now read and review and tell me I'm pretty.**

* * *

He sees nothing. Not the growing crowd of shocked spectators around him, not the Quidditch players circling nervously overhead on their brooms, and certainly not the bloody, mangled mess of a face he is currently laying fists into.

All he sees is red, and if hatred had a tangible color, it would certainly be this exact shade of crimson. All he sees is his complete and utter loathing of the pathetic boy under him. All he sees is revulsion.

"That's quite enough, Mr. Kirkland!"

With a start, he finds himself lifted from his thoughts as well as from the grassy Quidditch pitch. A levitation spell, and a powerful one at that, lifts him away from the gory wreckage of his beating of the other boy. The spell is too potent for a student, and just a moment of searching confirms Professor McGonagall to be the culprit- her wand raised, her face furious.

The boy is a Slytherin just as Arthur is, not a Gryffindor, but even so, McGonagall has no tolerance for rule breakers. Furious as he is, Arthur can't take the look of righteous anger and disappointment on the woman's face, and looks away after only a few seconds.

As his mind takes a split second to survey the damage, he finds that the injuries the boy sustained weren't quite as bad as he would have liked. A bloody nose and two black eyes. It would take, what, five minutes for Madam Pomfrey to sort him out and have him on his way? Mere child's play, even if his knuckles and sleeves are dripping blood.

He hisses as he stares down, crisp green eyes wheeling furiously about as if daring anyone to try anything. He should have done more. He thinks of Alfred, splayed out on the pitch at an awkward angle, unconscious as this boy claimed the Snitch, and he begins struggling subconsciously in the air for another go. He'd do more than knock this boy off his broomstick, when this charm was lifted-

But no such luck. Even as Arthur struggled, the boy was lifted still-conscious from the ground and escorted to the nurse's quarters. Where Alfred is. The mere thought fills Arthur with revulsion.

Still, he can do little. As a very irritated looking Snape and Hagrid disperse the crowds, McGonagall keeps him steady in the air. After little time, he loses the will to struggle and simple hangs there scowling. The Quidditch match has been called off, and neither team has won, which only sours his mood further. He thinks of Alfred and his bright smile and forecasts of victory and seethes. For once, he isn't thinking of how badly this will reflect on his Pureblood family. He only thinks of Alfred.

At last, after the pitch is near empty, the woman lowers him to the ground. She isn't very rough about it, but the landing is hard, and Arthur winces at the feeling in his feet, which have by now fallen asleep. He brushes off his knuckles the best he can, although they are stained copper by now, and his sleeves are doubtlessly stained. Nothing a quick spell can't fix, but he finds himself sore. McGonagall doesn't say a word, but beckons brusquely for him to follow her to Dumbledore's office. He does, with some reluctance.

He had only come to this stupid game in the first place because Alfred had begged him to. Although even the friendship between them was star-crossed at best and just plain dangerous at worst, he still couldn't resist that pleading face. Generally, sports weren't his thing, and Arthur was terrible on a broomstick. He had come begrudgingly to watch Alfred, not for the actual game.

But as it went on, he had become entranced by it. Not just the strategy but the graceful yet powerful movements of the players, the cunning, the adrenaline. It was his own house against the Gryffindors, and although he knew he should be rooting for Slytherin, he couldn't help but cheer whenever Alfred, the team's seeker, flew by with that wide smile. It was simply magnetic, there was no avoiding it.

He still can't say he enjoys the sport, but he must admit there is a certain grace to it. And while he'll never say it to anyone he isn't about to kill, he actually was beginning to enjoy himself. That is, until the incident. His fists clench at his sides as McGonagall leads him around a corner and into the arched doorway of the main castle.

He'll be the first to admit that Slytherin isn't the most honorable of the houses. While he himself is an honest student, he knows that the other Slytherins have resorted to some rather depraved means to get what they want. He just never thought they were _violent_. To see that boy, the Slytherin seeker, so easily tackle Alfred right off his broom… And then to see Alfred fall…

_Should have turned my wand on him. I should have, I should have-_

Arthur hisses to himself, his fingernails digging crescents into his palm, his hand already patterned with blood. He doesn't regret running of the field the minute the boy came down when his foul was called upon, he didn't regret hoisting him off his broom, and he certainly didn't regret the beating. Housemates or not, the sight of Alfred lying unconscious on the pitch was enough to make his blood boil like a potion about to fizz over. He had heard somewhere blurrily outside of all of the chaos that Alfred would make a full recovery, but that doesn't appease his anger.

"Here we are," the Professor says curtly after a long stretch of silence and footsteps. They stand outside of Dumbledore's door, and even if Arthur still feels justified, he also feels a little nervous. Dumbledore is not a cruel man, and no one ever accused him of being unfair. Still, students who pick fights hardly get off easy. He swallows as McGonagall raps sharply on the door- once, twice. Before the third knock, the door clicks open automatically, and they step inside.

"How nice to have friends over," Dumbledore states when the door and Arthur's fate are soundly closed behind them. His room is intimidating and grand and filled with the moving paintings that glare at him, but Dumbledore is just as informal and hospitable as ever. It makes Arthur damn uncomfortable, but he bears with it as McGonagall clears her throat.

"I trust you know why we are here," she says shortly. Her eyes stray overt o Arthur, and while they aren't filled with the contempt that Arthur was expecting, they are certainly not friendly. Dumbledore frowns.

"Ah, yes. I hear from Snape that there was quite the disturbance between two of his students after an altercation involving one Alfred Jones and Peter Blakeslee during Quidditch. Is that so?"

McGonagall nodded. "Yes sir. And this boy appears to be the cause of it- gave Blakeslee quite the beating, he did. Isn't that right?"

Arthur looks down at the floorboards like a little first year and nods. There is silence in the door for a long while, although perhaps this is just Arthur's anxiety getting the better of him and his sense of time. When he looks up for the smallest fraction of a moment, he sees Dumbledore nodding to himself, as if considering the situation. The ticking of the impressive grandfather clock in the corner is the loudest noise in the room for a long moment.

At last, he speaks. "Alfred Jones and Peter Blakeslee are alright, correct?"

McGonagall nods. "Yes. According to Pomfrey, Jones should take a day or so to recuperate with the proper medicine and spells. Blakeslee sustained minor injuries. However-"

"I understand that Mr. Kirkland should still be punished, Minerva. There is no need for you to be concerned he may be let off the hook. Now, am I to understand that both boys will recover?"

McGonagall looks affronted, but nods. "Yes. However, I escorted Mr. Kirkland in here in order to discuss the proper course of punishment for his roughhousing."

Arthur straightens as the headmaster turns to address him.

"Mr. Kirkland, I must say that it is certainly a surprise to see you in my office," he says, surprised. "You don't seem the type for this sort of behavior. Is there any particular reason?"

Arthur's ears burn, and of course he can't tell the truth. "No sir."

Dumbledore frowns. "Do you mean to say that you attacked a student of your own house unprovoked?"

The tone of confusion has Arthur giving a weak cough, uncomfortable. "No sir. I- Peter owed me, uh, money. For a bet. I suppose I was just angry-"

"This has nothing to do with the incident between Mr. Blakeslee and Mr. Jones, then?"

Arthur chokes on another cough, and the spark of understanding lights in Dumbledore's eyes. It is too late and he knows it, but Arthur struggles to deny the truth.

"No sir, not at all! I- I couldn't care less about that- that incompetent git-"

"Mr. Kirkland!" McGonagall objects. Arthur winces. Fantastic. Of course, while she would never admit it, Alfred is one of McGonagall's favorite students. While she is far from showing him any favoritism, it dawns on him that she is no more happy at what has happened than he is. Dumbledore nods along with what he has said, but there's still that knowing glint in his eyes behind those half-moon spectacles, and Arthur knows that he is caught.

"Very well," the man says after a moment. "There will be a point deduction for the altercations brought about by Mr. Blakeslee and Mr. Kirkland, and two week's detention for both to be served with Filch. Mr. Blakeslee will also be suspended from his team for the time being."

McGonagall frowns. "Severus should be present if there is talk of point deductions from his house."

"I spoke to him about it when he informed me of the quarrel. He isn't very pleased, but there isn't much he can say in Slytherins' defense. Already, two under his charge have caused bodily harm to another student. He'll simply have to live with it."

The Professor sighs. "Alright. If that is all."

"It is." Despite this, Dumbledore pauses. "However, I would like a moment with Mr. Kirkland, if you don't mind."

McGonagall hesitates, but ultimately nods. "Alright. I will escort him back to his quarters when you are finished."

With this, she walks out the door, leaving Arthur alone with his demons and headmaster. Faced with both, he thinks he'd rather fight his demons. The look Dumbledore is giving him promises no fight, however. Merely a talk.

"Mr. Blakeslee is indebted to you now, is he?"

The tone is warm, but Arthur flinches. Dumbledore chuckles.

"Honestly, now, Mr. Kirkland. I don't intend to give you any more of a tongue-lashing than Minerva is surely going to. I merely want the truth."

Arthur casts a glance to the side, not wanting to meet those eyes. Dumbledore sighs.

"Perhaps I seem as old as Hogwarts itself to you students, but understand that I was young once, too. I made mistakes. I also fell in love."

The words are like a Muggle's match struck straight against Arthur's skin, and he heats up like a Firebolt at top speed. Dumbledore laughs again, not unkindly.

"Love is nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Kirkland," he assured him. "However, you must know that violence is seldom the answer to one's problems. While I am certainly not pleased by Mr. Blakeslee's actions, sinking to his level was not the way to go about things. Am I clear?"

Arthur nods, skin still burning, and he refuses to look up lest his mortification truly skyrocket. "Yes sir."

Even without looking, he can tell that the headmaster is smiling. "Good. Minerva?"

Silence reins for a moment before McGonagall steps through the threshold of the door. Arthur notices that her cheeks are dusted a light pink and wonders, horrified, if she had been listening in on that conversation. Dumbledore nods at her.

"You may escort Mr. Kirkland to his quarters, now. However, I do wonder if you would mind taking him to the infirmary first."

McGonagall blinks, her cheeks returning to their usual pallor. "Is he injured?"

Dumbledore just smiles. "No, but I believe there is someone there with whom he has business to attend to."

* * *

The infirmary smells of tonics and burnt wood, but McGonagall escorts him there dutifully and waits outside for him to do what he came here for. Almost gingerly, he walks along the rows of hospital beds with curtains drawn, worried that Alfred is asleep or, worse, that he may not wish to speak with him. The boy had been from Slytherin after all. He stands still wringing his hands for a moment before he manages to slap some sense into himself and approaches Madam Pomfrey.

"May I- That is, would it be alright if-"

She hushes his whispers and gestures to a bed at the far side of the room, facing the windows. Facing the sky. It makes sense. Arthur thanks her quietly and goes to sit gingerly at the bedside. When he gets there, he is relieves not only to see Alfred awake, but actually sitting up. His arm broken and the face he is making seems to indicate that he has been given some nasty healing tonic, but he smiles when he sees Arthur, and this alone lifts a weight off his shoulders.

"Hey," he says, his voice somewhat hoarse. Usually Arthur abhors that American accent, so thick and obnoxious, but now he finds that he is actually quite fond of it, somewhere deep down. He nods, not entirely trusting himself to speak up and explain, but he doesn't need to. Alfred sees his bloody sleeves and draws in a breath, making Arthur cringe.

"Dude, are you okay? You didn't get hurt, did you?"

Git. Arthur huffs. "No. You bleeding idiot, you're the one who got hurt."

Alfred looks puzzled. "Then what's with the-"

"Well, someone had to knock some sense into that sodding idiot," Arthur interjects, annoyed. Alfred blinks once, twice, three times. It takes a full ten seconds for the light to go on in his mind.

"You don't mean- You _beat up_ Peter Blakeslee?"

Arthur growls. "And so what if I did? The idiot deserved it full well, you know he did! Or do I have to remind you of how he knocked you clean off your broomstick in the middle of a game-"

"Shush, the both of you! There are other patients," Madam Pomfrey hisses, ducking her head into their space. Arthur bites his tongue, and Alfred gives her a sheepish wave. She shoots them both a look before moving on again. Alfred lets out a breath.

"Well damn, Arthur. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm grateful and everything-"

"I didn't do it for you," Arthur bites back indignantly. "I was just disgusted by the sportsmanship and- Oh, cut it out with the shite eating grin, would you? This room can barely contain your ego as it is."

Alfred laughs, and Arthur finds it to be the most calming sound he has heard all day, as much as he hates to admit it. "Right, right. Sorry for assuming things, then."

"You had better be," Arthur replies pointedly, although he is humiliated to realize that he is blushing.

A comfortable silence settles between them before Alfred breaks it, his face turning unusually somber.

"Still," he says, his voice a shade more serious. "You shouldn't have done that, Arthur."

"And why the hell not?" He replies, eyes narrowed. Alfred frowns.

"Your parents," he says. "You've said it yourself, Arthur, they don't tolerate imperfection. It's bad enough that people have found out that we're friends. If they hear you did this for me-"

"It'll be fine," Arthur interjects firmly. Alfred eyes him dubiously.

"You know that this is really going to hurt your chances of being a prefect-"

"It'll be _fine_," Arthur bites venomously, but at seeing the reproachful look on Alfred's face, he softens. "I don't regret doing it and with any luck, no one will hear any more of it come next week after the OWLs. My parents… My parents stopped thinking I was perfect some time ago. It has nothing to do with you."

Alfred still looks skeptical, but whatever else he has to say is swallowed up by a great yawn.

"You should be going to sleep," he says. By way of reply, Alfred gives him a small nod.

"Yeah, well," he looks at Arthur with a bleary sort of fondness, and Arthur valiantly fights back the blush rising from his collar. "It was kind of cool of you to do that, even if it wasn't for me. You really are a pretty awesome guy, under all of that fussing."

Arthur glares. "I still have a few good punches left in me."

Alfred looks scandalized, holding up his left arm. "You would hurt a cripple?"

"Go to sleep, git," Arthur replies, rolling his eyes. Alfred laughs.

"Would you do me one last thing, at least?"

"And what would that be?" Arthur replies dubiously. Alfred lifts a brow.

"Who won the match?"

Arthur looks down, worrying his lip. "Ah, well, they sort of had to- Discontinue. After you feel. Uh, of course, there was the small matter of me-"

"Trying to beat the shit out of Peter Blakeslee?" Alfred supplies helpfully. Arthur scowls.

"Yes, well. There was no winner."

Alfred looks disappointed for a moment and Arthur feels preemptively guilty for spoiling the match, but the other boy perks up in no time.

"I was the sexiest out there, though, wasn't I?"

Arthur lights up like he's been placed under a Lumos spell and splutters indignantly.

"I- What- How the bloody hell should _I_ know?"

"Oh, you know you want this," Alfred replies jokingly, teasing down his hospital gown. Arthur throws his hands in the air and stomps out of the room.

"Come back, Arthur! Don't you want a strip tease?"

"Shut up, git!"

Madam Pomfrey needs to physically restrain herself from slapping them both.

* * *

**Madam Pomfrey gonna chokabitch.**

**Reviews are like a wand- they should be long, unyielding, and **_**big**_**.**

**S'what she said.**


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